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poems by
Corey Mesler
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This Writing Life
I wrote
a poem. Fescue put
it out. I wrote another.
Lively Skin said,
I like it, but, please,
just take it away.
I wrote another and another
and around the block
the "small quarterlies" stood
for days.
I began writing as fast as I could.
Sometimes I just held down a key
and it ran on until I had
the right size.
Little Burro published them
as a series, entitled "Dreams."
This writing life is a cushion
in my middle age.
I never knew it would be like this.
Just this morning
Antigone's Jockstrap called.
"If it were up to us you would get
the Poulter's Measure Prize. But these things
are so unfair. Your
writing pleases us.
We're thinking of naming our future cat after you."
And on and on it goes,
one compliment after another.
I'm getting sick of it.
Seadogs and Cruor
“We bled inside each other’s wounds
We all caught the same disease
We sang the songs of peace.”
- Melanie Safka
It was crowded in the streets. The
bulls were loosed. The
air was thick with antiar.
At the front blood mixed with leftover
starlight and spirits rose.
Later, there would be the rinsing off,
the binding of wounds.
Later we would all sit down and write
what we knew, the new euchologion.
